


i'm not the monster here

by orphan_account



Series: INTMH [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Cutting, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Needs a Hug, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders-centric, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eyes, Fear of Death, Gen, Hugs, Hurt Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Mild Language, Rejection, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Shapeshifting, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Transformation, Unsympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Unsympathetic Light Sides (Sanders Sides), and he gets it, remus cuts eyes out of his body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He doesn’t know when it started, but if he had to guess, he’d say it was around the time the King began indulging in “forbidden” topics.
Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Everyone, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Thomas Sanders
Series: INTMH [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030953
Kudos: 37





	i'm not the monster here

He doesn’t know when it started, but if he had to guess, he’d say it was around the time the King began indulging in “forbidden” topics.

It was a time where paintings of lively subjects and extravagant castles morphed into bloody masses of corpses and burning bridges, where those living in the Imagination twisted into man-eating beasts and maggot-infested zombies, their bones snapped and bent into agonizing shapes. The King himself, once adorned in gold and purple, covered in glittering jewels and dressed in lavish clothing, had become twisted from his former self, the colors faded in his robes and his clothing torn and full of holes, bones replacing the rings and necklaces he once wore. Even his eyes, bright and full of light, had grown dull, sharp and gleeful for all-too-sinister reasons.

These changes, in Remus’ opinion, were a breath of fresh air; a welcome change from the stale, boring creations they’d indulged in before. Of course, he hadn’t been himself at the time, merely a small, inconceivable drop of the King’s consciousness, but he knew, deep down, that his opinion had been the one the King agreed with most. Not only because he felt it but because, even if the memories are hazy now, he can still remember the arguments the others presented back then.

 _“It’s wrong. Hurting people is_ wrong _—why don’t you understand that? Why would you even do something like this in the first place? Can’t you see they’re suffering?”_

_“What if Thomas sees this? What if he starts thinking like this? It would scare him!”_

_“You’re going to make Thomas a bad person. You’re going to make him think it’s okay!”_

_“You’re a bad person.”_

And that’s where it started—the accusation. _You’re a bad person. You’re bad for Thomas. You’re going to make him do bad things. There’s no good that can come from this kind of creativity. Bad, bad, bad._

At the time, the King had laughed and waved the comment off, thinking it nothing more than a temper tantrum from the resident moral and anxious sides.

But Remus, the center for all of the King’s forbidden creations, didn’t have as easy of a time dismissing it. His creations were an extension of himself in many ways—and being told that they were bad, or that they shouldn’t exist, didn’t sit quite right with him.

 _If they’re bad_ , he had thought, more out of curiosity than anything else, _then what does that say about me?_

Admittedly, this uneasiness may have been why the King split apart in the first place; if what he makes is “bad,” after all, wouldn’t it make sense to separate it from the “good?”

Evident by the fact that the Light Sides accepted his brother with open arms, leaving him stranded in the dark, the answer is a resounding yes.

Remus notices now that there was a pattern, after that; whenever he’d make something, anything, even if it were to the Light Sides’ standards and nearly identical to his brother’s creations, he was met with disgust. _Put that away. What’s wrong with you? That’s disgusting. Stop it, that’s bad._ _You’re always doing something bad, Remus, you’re bad, you’re wrong, just go away and leave us_ alone _—_

And now, with each negative remark piling up until there’s nothing else to be found, a weight settles over him, heavy and cold, pushing further and further until he can’t breathe. Closing in on him, little by little, bit by bit.

Honestly, he should have known that damned cloud was a bad omen. Shame on him for ignoring it until it was too late.

At first, he finds himself unable to manifest certain thoughts in the Imagination. Nothing important; just the more extreme thoughts, the bad fantasies and intrusions, the ones that Thomas isn’t even aware of. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he tears and rips at the thoughts forming in his head, they never come to fruition, never take physical form. An odd occurrence, sure, but easy enough to dismiss as art block or repression.

But, after the realization has come and passed, _all_ thoughts on his side of the Imagination refuse to manifest themselves, unable to take form, blocked by a wall he can’t see.

Then, the creations already existing on his side wither and die because he can’t maintain them, restricted as he is.

And then the door to the Imagination itself refuses to open for him, locking him out of his own home.

After that, Remus can’t seem to get it to stop, losing more and more as time goes on.

He can’t summon objects in the mind palace. He can’t repair his clothes because that requires energy, and he doesn’t have much to spare. With the buildup of ideas and intrusive thoughts, he starts verbalizing them, unable to handle them any other way, but even _that_ is met with hatred and rejection, forcing him into silence even when all that’s required of him is a simple _yes or no_ answer.

All the while, the thoughts echoing in his head become louder, getting stronger with each loss: _bad. Wrong. Evil._

It terrifies him. Not at the thought of being bad or wrong or evil; he couldn’t care less what the others think of him.

No, he’s terrified because of the effect it has on his function.

How far will it go? What else will it take away from him? Will there be anything left once it’s done? Will it _ever_ be done with him?

(Is this what it’s like for a Side to die? Not by any physical means, but through the loss of his very function?)

(And more importantly, what’ll happen to Thomas if he really _is_ dying? Who will take his place?)

Desperate, he takes to shapeshifting—his only form of expression now that everything else has become off-limits. Whether it be transforming into a beast ( _bones snapping and muscles stretching, insides twisting uncomfortably as they adjust to the changes of his body_ ) or exploring the ins-and-outs of death ( _every nerve on fire, parts of him splattered along the floor, the walls, the ceiling, pain overwhelming him and he can’t even scream_ ), he manages to turn into whatever bad, forbidden thought has latched itself into Thomas’ brain, hoping that it’ll reduce the crushing weight pressing against him at all times. Hoping, despite knowing otherwise, that it’ll stop the thoughts from transferring directly to Thomas. That’s the last thing he needs, sending all of Thomas’ repressed thoughts to the front of his mind.

(He’s sure that if it ever _does_ happen, the others will make sure he knows just how bad he is and how much he’s ruined. It’s the only thing he hears from them, these days.)

(He can’t say he can argue with them, either.)

He watches as eyes grow along his arms, crawling up his arms and down his chest. He grimaces through the pain, silent and waiting, sticking his tongue out at the multi-colored eyes staring up at him. They don’t blink, their cruel, judgmental gazes boring through his very being.

Something about this particular thought feels…off. Invasive in a way it’s never been before, which is saying something, considering how terrible he’s felt for the past however many years.

It’s not until the thought shifts that he realizes why, cold, unwavering dread digging deep within his stomach.

_Bad. Wrong. Evil._

_Get rid of it. Get rid of it_ now _._

The thoughts spiral, echoing that age-old sentiment over and over again until his ears ring and his vision blurs with an old, resurfacing rage.

 _Wrong. It’s all wrong—this is all_ wrong _._

_This is not my fault._

Slowly, he picks up a knife from his nightstand. His hands tremble, however easy it is to miss; not out of fear or nerves, either, but out of anger.

_This is not my fault._

Honestly, carving the eyes out hurts a lot less than when they grew in. Or maybe he’s just grown numb, having done far worse to himself in the past.

Whatever the case, he cuts them off, one by one, the eyes falling onto his carpet with a muffled thump. Blood trickles down his body, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have the energy to care.

_This is not my fault._

Remus’ door slams open, and he jumps, looking up with wide, startled eyes. He expects Janus (which is stupid, because Janus left him, trading him for a freedom he’ll never have) or maybe even his brother (which is even stupider because Roman hates the very thought of him, let alone being near him)—but, where he expects to see a Side, shocked and horrified, he instead finds Thomas, alarmed and a little put off by the scene in front of him but otherwise unbothered.

Remus freezes, unsure of what to do, knowing he can’t explain or so much as deflect with some bullshit excuse. His mouth opens and closes, useless, as the eyes vanish and the wounds on his body close, leaving nothing behind save for the blood sticking to his skin.

So, unable to speak and too tired to squish himself further into his room, unshed tears still shining in his eyes and shaking so hard he wonders if he’ll break, he sets aside the knife and holds out his arms, a silent request hanging in the air.

Thomas hesitates—and for a moment Remus thinks _this is it, this is another thing that’s going to be written off as bad, he’s going to think I’m beyond use, I’m going to die, I’m going to_ die _—_

Remus tenses as he’s pulled into the other’s chest, Thomas’ arms around his shoulders and the other’s face nuzzled against his cheek, eyes blown wide and heart hammering hard against his rib cage. It takes him a moment to realize the other is talking to him, the words barely registering in his fogged-over mind.

“Hey,” Thomas murmurs, quiet and comforting, a stark contrast to the tones Remus is used to, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The tears in his eyes finally fall. Slowly, feeling entirely wrong for even considering it but pushing forward despite the squirming feeling in his chest, he returns the hug, fingers twisting the fabric of Thomas’ shirt and burying his face in his neck.

The weight that’d crushed him for years pulls away—not fully gone, no, but far enough that he can breathe, tentatively reaching out and finding his connection with the Imagination after a ridiculous amount of searching.

He relaxes.

 _I’m not the problem_ , he tells himself, firm and steady. _I’m_ not _._

He doesn’t believe it—not yet. But, with Thomas speaking quietly to him in that hushed, comforting tone of his, the other’s fingers twisted in his hair, Remus thinks, however hesitant, that he might believe it, someday.

(And, with Thomas sitting there with him, rubbing circles into the small of his back and cracking jokes that are a little too _Remus_ to be accidental, Remus has a feeling Thomas might believe it someday, too.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to request a story, please direct it to our [tumblr](https://namediscomfort.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> Remus deserves better than what we give him.


End file.
